


Rules To Live By

by Cinnaboy (Skeltonstein)



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol, Canon Typical Violence, Drinking, Eventual Romance, Headcanons Everywhere, M/M, Meet-Cute, Origin Story, Slow Burn, Trans Junkrat, author is a wiseass, crackin jokes, headcanons, i'm gonna own up to it rn, meat-hook cute?, meet really ugly tbh, misuse of australian slang, more tags to come, ocs to advance plot or be 'villains'
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-04
Updated: 2017-02-04
Packaged: 2018-09-21 22:00:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9568673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skeltonstein/pseuds/Cinnaboy
Summary: Jamison "Junkrat" Fawkes is a loudmouth and an idiot who wants his name known throughout Junkertown. What better way than to tell everyone the secret of the Omnium and get a bounty put on his head? Roadhog is the enforcer-turned-bounty-hunter bent on collecting this runt's fortune and retiring in style.Absolutely nothing goes as planned.





	

**Author's Note:**

> i don't have a beta right now, but i'm trying my best,,
> 
> EDIT: i should probaby explain some terms. since i'll be filling in a *lot* of lore gaps with headcanons, some of the general terms and practices of junkertown will be borrowed from the fallout series. so, caps are bottle caps used as currency; most paper money was destroyed. fallout is pretty mad max inspired, too, so it seemed fitting. i'll be happy to answer any questions about terms and lore in the comments or at junkjunker.tumblr!

Every settlement in the Junker territories had at least four things: a mechanic, a trading outpost, a doctor, and a bar. They fed into each other, with the mechanics scrapping for the traders, the traders spreading around some of the wealth, the bar sending the shitfaced to the doctor, and the somewhat healthy headed straight back to the wastes for more scrap. More likely than not, their owners answered to the same lording old bat who kept them in business as opposed to crawling in the dirt for screws with the rest of the nomads. And they were grateful for it on most days. Jails were optional, as enforcers were only ever hired by those with the collateral to chase someone out of town or kill them. Hotels too, because who could be trusted not to steal from you or kill you or worse when you weren’t looking?

In this way, the Springs’ Junkertown was different. Being the biggest approximation of a real city in the whole territory, it had spared no expense and had every resource you could think of, for a desert crater. It was Vegas with a fraction of the lights, but only half the gambling and landmarks. New Orleans with all the structural integrity of a cardboard box, if it were coated in tin foil. Scavengers and nomads, bikers and settlers, bums and volunteers from the whole desert would rise from the horizon and flood the streets. There wasn’t any other place to find so many scraggly, singed, teeth-bearing, wild, and free bastards anywhere else. It was big enough to lose yourself if you needed to, but crowded enough to always have someone else to dazzle, to scam. And having scammed and dazzled his way through most of his life, or selling scraps to visit doctors, Junkrat felt it was damn well time he went to a bar. 

It’s not like he’d never had a drink before (he had had plenty) or never been inside a bar (he had dragged plenty out of them) but he’d never done the two at the same time. Growing up in the dirt didn’t leave much financial wiggle room, but now that he’d found some, it just seemed fitting he would use it to enjoy himself. The Epilogue Lounge was a good place to start, a renovated double-story inn with the lower floor being a bar, a classy sort of locale with at least a working jukebox and enough people to mingle with. Or at least, he had heard. He knew the outside of the building, as well as the rest of Junktertown, with the same familiarity lab rats had for mazes. The term “rat race” wasn’t something Junkrat was entirely familiar with, but had he known, he’d get a laugh out of how fitting it was.

If he was lucky, he might be able to rent a room at the Epilogue Lounge with four walls and a door that locks and sleep on a cushy mattress without interruptions. Out of all the things he was, he was not willing to call himself lucky.

Crowds were cycling out, the daytime traders passing on to their homes or their rides, while the nightlife moved in their place, clocking in and ready to get to business. Plenty of Junkertown stayed open at all hours, the bars, the body houses, the traders, and they had adapted to using fire and generators to keep sleep at bay. Any way you looked at it, business was better at night, with the dead heat of the sun gone. But travelling was better at night as well. It kept most of the people in town, smothered into the cracks during the day. The night let them rise, flowing into the streets like billowing black smoke, and the flypaper doormats and bug zapper windows kept them glued to the bustle until the morning. Junkrat was just about tired of living with this cycle. 

The front door of the Epilogue Lounge was quite literally a carpet nailed to the door frame, filtering light and sound both from and to the streets. A din of voices and staticy music poured out with the warm light, filling the darkening air. On one side, a hefty bouncer filled a sunbleached, dirty loveseat, gun across his lap and an aged book in one hand. On the other side, a sign that originally read “trespassers shot on sight” had paint slathered over it to just read “shot on sight.” Junkrat could take a hint and keep himself civilized for a while.

The bouncer looked up from his novella for a quick appraisal. Junkrat held his empty hands out in a shrug, ready for some opposition, a bribe, an arm wrestling challenge, something. Without so much as a condescending snort, a lazy hand turned to a new page, then pulled back the threadbare carpet.

“Don’t start nothin, won’t be nothin.” Well, that sounded reasonable. So he walked in.

Hearing the commotion from the outside and being in the middle of it were two sensations he had trouble reconciling. Strong, warm lights were strung over the tables and away from the bar, creating a black hole in the far corner where a back door might hide. Scavengers and settlers hunched over card games and dominoes, odd shadows falling over their features, distorting their expressions. In the corner, a ham radio trapped in a tumbleweed cage of wires was affixed to a jukebox, cranking out an ancient rock ballad through the hijacked speakers. Mismatched stools lined the tall bar, some with backs, some shorter than others, and one post missing a seat altogether. Faded plastic palm fronds gleamed on the patchwork metal walls, hoping to cover the holes and imperfections the flags, framed portraits, and road signs couldn’t. Whoever put together the interior decor needed to be shot. Then again, that was probably how the place got to the point it was.

One thing you couldn’t say about the lounge was it was poorly stocked; the shelves behind the bar were lined in glass bottles of all sizes, filled with liquids of all colors, and he felt himself pulled to them. As he crossed the floor, the table of domino players flared in a roar of disbelief. One woman flagged down the man holding the betting pool, unable to contain a beaming pride. A man sporting an aged, uncomfortable looking suit smacked the arrangement of dominoes with a rough palm, sending a couple flying in Junkrat’s direction. One would have slid far across the bar had he not stepped on it with his peg and nearly fall in the process.

“And I’ll be back next week,” she graciously accepted her winnings in a struggling burlap sack from the man. “Ready to take the rest of your caps, when you earn ‘em.”

The suit sprung from his chair as Junkrat stooped to pick up the domino. The seven-six. “What kinda fucking idiot keeps his double spinner til the last play? That should’ve sunk you.”

“The fucking idiot that took your caps, thank you very much,” before Junkrat stood, he heard her chair scrape against the floor and the smug smile in her voice. “And she’ll be on her way.” As she rounded the table and approached Junkrat, her smile turned more sincere. “Ta, love,” she held out a shining prosthetic hand palm up and it dawned on him just how well to-do she must have already been. It wasn’t a far leap to imagine she did this every night, and he knew a good swindle when he saw it, so a begrudging respect was in order. He dropped the domino into her palm and she chucked it at the suit, whose reddened face caught it as well as a face can. 

“Stealing caps like that,” he sneered and jabbed a grubby finger at her. “You best watch your back, Janey.”

She backed out of the doorway with her tongue out, holding her caps in one arm while making a rude gesture with the other.

The man kicked his chair down, with some trouble since his suit pants were altogether too tight, and he turned on the table. The rest of the players were staring at everything, from the carpet to Junkrat to the man himself, and even alternating.

“Fix this fucking wreck,” he threw a hand up in the direction of the table and shoved past Junkrat on his way behind the bar. The sound of the back door swinging shut pushed the watching eyes back to their respective company and a chatter resumed under the music. A couple of the other players were left the undignified task of picking up the scattered dominoes and Junkrat stayed out of their way by taking a seat at the bar. One other person had the same idea, but was firmly planted at the farthest end and didn’t seem to want any small talk. He hoisted his bag, weighed down with caps, onto the chair next to him and waited.

The fucking nerve of the gambler made his skin boil. It was one thing to tell off a total stranger, but pushing him over in an empty floor? Nothing in his way but him, must have rolled him over just for a stroke to his ego. The suit over his rich britches didn’t help the gnawing he felt in his hands, in his chest. Pieces of the aged varnish were getting uncomfortably wedged under his fingernails and he forced himself to smooth his palms over the surface. It was cool to the touch and smoother than any other wood he’d worked with, and had a dark rosy color to boot. He could let that take his mind elsewhere.

A minute had passed with him feeling up the wood before he started to feel a smidge self conscious. Did he really have to wait for a bartender to grace his presence or could he just help himself? Maybe there was a bell or something? Or he should put his elbows on the counter, lean into it to make it seem he was really here, really meant business? It wasn’t like he was shorter than the bar, he was a good ways over it, and this was what people did. This was how people ordered drinks. When in bars. Yeah.

Finally the back door swung open again and a thin man in an apron fell out, wiping his hands on the ends. Angried shouts from the kitchen rose just above the music and the ambient chatter, but were easily lost in all the commotion and shut up by the door. The bartender was just about to walk past him in favor of the other scavenger at the end of the bar, but he caught his sleeve before he’d passed. The bartender sighed and forced a tense smile as he pulled a threadbare rag out from under the counter.

“Just what I can do for you, sir?” One hand stayed below the counter while the other wiped the rag over the thinning varnish.

“You can start with a few drinks,” Junkrat pulled an overflowing bag of caps from the bag he’d set on the next stool and dropped it between them with a loud clatter. He matched the tone of the face the bartender pulled with a shit-eating grin, all teeth. “Then lose those ‘niceties,’ mate.” The bartender poorly contained a rash of intense interest throughout his body for a solid two seconds, then pulled the bag under the counter to examine it. Wouldn’t judge by sound alone; at least he was smarter than he looked.

Junkrat turned to hang the bag, then made a disinterested noise to grab his attention again. “Toss me a roo steak when you find it.”

“Oh, whatever you say, you mad cunt.” He turned around to the bar and started setting up glasses on a tray.

“Make those sweet,” Junkrat knocked twice on the bar and carded his hands through his hair, fluffing it up. God knew how long it had been since he’d had any cleaning and he doubted he would see a shower here. Not that he had been here enough times to find out; an inn wasn’t an “in” for a swindle—not his kind, anyhow. There had been plenty of times he thanked whatever fates that may be for how he didn’t have to work beds for a living.

Impulsively, he gave the stool a test swivel, then spun around, letting the pull of gravity or whatever it was take him. Gaining confidence, and speed, the second turn was harder. On the third, a blur had materialized far too close to him and he made an emergency brake against the counter, clutching for dear life. It was only a man, the one with the betting pool from the domino game, who had planted his ass in the stool next to him. He was holding his bag out by the strap and a quick, twofold woozy glance to the room told him this wasn’t the first person to take a keener interest in him now.

The man, well dressed for a scavenger, jostled the bag playfully. Junkrat recognized it as more of a test to see if he had any more where those caps came from. He snatched the strap and pulled it over the back of his stool.

“How do you do?” The man rested an elbow on the bar. “Ain’t I seen you somewhere before?”

“Uh. Well,” he tried to measure his words carefully. Of course most people could recognize his mug if they tried; chances are he’s swindled everybody out of at least a handful of caps or scrap here and there. “If you’ve been around, you’ve prob’ly socked me before,” he held his cheek and flashed a smile; his tongue poked out through the gap where a tooth should be. A little too late, he realized the man probably meant the incident with Janey and the suit, but it had already passed. The bartender came back down the line and set the full tray of drinks down in front of them.

“Ooh, you poor bastard,” the scavenger’s laugh dripped like syrup over a circuit board, stopping the works and collecting more bad thoughts the longer he thought about it. He didn’t look away from his face when he told the bartender, “Ah, grab me a shot of Daniels, yeah?” Something about the man’s face didn’t quite sit right with him. Sure, he could admit some of the features were actually pretty handsome, like his eyebrows and the cut of his chin. But the worn, tan skin looked too tight over his bones to be quite real. It wasn’t like any tan he had ever seen.

He picked a milky pinkish shot off the tray and gestured for Junkrat to do the same while he appraised his face. “No, I don’t think I have it in me to rough up a mug like that.”

So that was his game? With a polite jerk, Junkrat plucked the shot out of his fingers and threw it back. It was sickeningly sweet, rose and butterscotch, but he had gotten what he’d asked for. Polished or no, the counter still made a firm, satisfying sound against the glass and harmonized with his growling sigh. He tried smiling sincerely, but fell very short.

“Oh, I think you could.” 

The scavenger made himself smile and laugh. For Junkrat, reading a face had never come naturally, but it had been a part of his trade. It’s in the edges of the eyes, in the way they hold their head, just how they shake when, if, they laugh. Telling the audience’s mood, gauging their reactions, was important to know if you were a good enough distraction to make it or about to get your ass handed to you. These were rules to live by, his uncle told him, and ones he repeatedly learned the hard way. His teeth were an unreal white and under those eyes, he felt vaguely like he was being ogled by a bird of prey. Problem was, he couldn’t tell if he should like it or not.

When the bartender dumped a sizable bottle of Jack Daniels in front of him, the scavenger indignantly watched him disappear into the black hole of the back door. Like someone hearing an improbable fact for the first time (you know, man has pissed on the moon), he looked to Junkrat for confirmation, who shrugged.

“Well, that’s service with a smile if I’ve ever seen it,” he shook his head and poured himself a shot. While Junkrat picked up another, a warm amber this time, he stuck out a hand. It wasn’t palm up and it wasn’t moving, so for a second, Junkrat didn’t know what to do with it. Just before it got awkward, he set the shot down to shake his hand.

“Brady Calhoun.” The grip on his hand was uncomfortably firm and warm. 

“Uh, Jamison. Fawkes.”

“Glad to meet ya,” Brady finally let go, leaving a buzzing sensation in the tips of his fingers, and picked up a glass. He tapped it against the shot in front of him, “Cheers,” and they drank. A strong, overwhelming almond flavor gripped his throat, and Junkrat shook the sensation from his head.  
“Never been one to try new things, I see.” Brady’s smug look might have suited his high cheek bones, but that didn’t make the condescension any more palatable.

“Hard to branch out when you’re dirt-poor,” he shrugged. Telling too much too quickly would land him in a shit way, so he could afford to be cagey. 

“That what brings you here?” This man was only going to keep pushing him. He could stall for time until he’d eaten, but after that, he needed to be gone. 

“Look, mate, if you’re just?” Junkrat held his head in one hand and gestured vaguely over the drinks with the other. “Looking for a wristy in the alley, I’m gonna hafta get down the rest of these in peace, first.”

Brady laughed and put a hand on his shoulder, entirely unwelcome. “Straight to the chase, eh? I--”

“Less straight than you’d bet.” Another drink. An inkling of warmth was starting up in his stomach and he appreciated the fog in his mind letting him talk so freely, but he needed to chase it to make it worthwhile. 

Brady was smiling again. “You know I would love to take the offer, but,” he gestured to the group of domino players he had come from. “What say we sit down with some mates of mine and we play a couple rounds first?” The grin was starting to turn the warm buzz into something slimey, something Junkrat almost had a finger on when the bartender backed into the room, balancing too many plates on one arm. A smoked steak and a plate of hot chips landed in front of him as the bartender kept moving, on to deliver the next meal. Whatever it was, it was gone. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had something this good and warm in front of him.

He jabbed a fork into the meat and started cutting. Out of all the things or people he’d played in his life, dominoes wasn’t one of them. In fact, he wasn’t sure if he had even touched a domino before today. If he played with them, he’d be outmatched and too new to be any good. “Nah, think I’ve got all the caps I need.”

Brady poured himself another, making a sly face. “Oh, I doubt you do. Nobody’s ever got enough in this town.”

“Yup,” Junkrat’s mouth was already full when he jabbed a chip in, “‘Cept me.”

“And how’s that?” Keeping his movements light, Brady lifted a chip while there was still one left to take. “What makes you top dog?”

Now there was a question.

“Jamison Fawkes, top dog,” he tested it like it had only just occurred to him. It had always been an attractive idea. “Sure, that’ll catch on.”

“Come on, don’t tease me,” Brady playfully shoved his arm and fidgeted with the glass in his hand. Between bites, Junkrat looked more closely at his features again. The undaunting confidence of his eyes, the height of his cheekbones. The set of his rough jaw, closely shaven. No, he couldn’t stomach this man.

“I s’pose, if it don’t leave you and me,” he challenged those eyes, knowing full well he couldn’t beat them, but pausing to try for effect. “I’ve got a treasure. Found it in the husk.”  
Brady’s eyes flared and the Jack Daniels swirling in his cup just about reached forty kph. “No,” he goaded. 

“Oh yeah,” he worked on gulping down more of his steak before he continued. “Got enough to set me up pretty somewhere gone... or start running things.” Junkrat let his own smugness glow on his face. “And I’m thinking the latter.”

Brady whistled low and nodded. “That’s a lucky break. How long’s it been since the big bang? Seventeen years? And you find it first.”

Junkrat shrugged and washed down chips with another drink. No sense in letting good booze go to waste, and he didn’t have much time left. “Only been doing it my whole life. Sounds right it’d be me.”

“You can’t be that young,” Brady sounded more disbelieving than he probably should have been. “But the wastes must be hard on a little thing like you. About time you caught a break.”

Junkrat’s eyes snapped to his at the pet term, but he forced a sneer into a grin. “That’s what I’ve been saying! About damn time.” From the corner of his eye, he saw Brady’s hand on the back of his stool. The strap of his bag was just under his palm. Brady’s eyes shifted from his hand to Junkrat’s face and the view over his shoulder, round and around. A signal.

The nearest shot glass to Junkrat’s hand was in his palm and then in Brady’s cheek. It shattered on the impact and embedded itself in both of them. Rough hands gripped his shoulders and dragged him out of his seat. Hunched over the bar, Brady howled over Junkrat’s yelp as his ass hit the floor. He was dazed from the hard fall, but he gripped the steak knife still in his working hand and, without thinking, swung for whoever was closest. It landed in the shoulder of a man whose face screwed up beyond recognition in pain. Junkrat pulled his bag to his chest and tried to make a break for the door, but not only did the bag wrench him back to the stool, still wrapped around the back--the door was blocked.

The bouncer from outside had waded past the carpet and his girth completely covered the whole exit. Briefly, Junkrat wondered how someone that big could have fit through a door that size so quickly. A mental skit of the man crab walking back and forth through the entrance was quickly put away--a long-barreled shotgun was leveled at him.

The scavenger had pulled the knife out of his shoulder and was scrambling to his feet, realizing the wound and the lost mark might not be the worst of his problems. Junkrat pulled himself to his feet by the stool, wrenched the bag up over the back, and dove over the bar. The first shot fired after him, too far away to be accurate, but hitting and cracking many of the bottles overhead. Faint blooming pain shot up his back and legs. Nothing he couldn’t handle, he told himself. Junkrat rose to his knees and grabbed the bottle of Jack Daniels from the bar.

Brady’s hand clawed after him, narrowly missing a hold of his hair. “Get back here you godawful fucking--” Something had changed with his voice. Beyond the growling and the pain in the pronunciation, it was off; there was no way it could be an Australian accent. He couldn’t think about it any more, he needed to move. He crawled to the kitchen door and barreled through it, avoiding another spray from the shotgun.

On the other side, the bartender was arguing with the wounded scavenger, holding a filthy, blooming rag to his arm, who must have had the same idea. Junkrat pushed through them (“--cking blood’s all in the soup!” Oh, like you can’t just boil th--”) and through the smoke billowing out of the stove. More yelling followed him and he ran shoulder-first into the back door, forgetting that most doors need to be operated to open, not shoved. A wooden slat across the frame kept it in place and hardly budged at the first tug; the palm of his hand ached, the glass shards dug in, pain dulled by the alcohol haze. The slat creaked, then conceded, and he pushed through the heavy metal and onto the street. 

Junkrat made sure to shove the door closed after him and bolted to the right. A rat in a maze knew how to follow his nose, but more importantly, he knew how to get lost. In all the people in the night market and all the places he’d hidden in his life, he knew how to make it look like he’d vanished before he was really gone. He turned a corner and heard the metal door burst open again. Time was precious.

He turned. The dark of the dirt streets made it difficult to get his bearings. Behind him, heavy steps and rattling chains rang from the metal buildings. He clutched the bottle by the neck in his poor hand and his bag under the other arm, heavy and threatening to slip through his fingers. There was nothing he could drop, it was all too important. He cut through a narrow alley, shimmying sideways to pop out the other side. No being followed by a behemoth through that, he was sure of it. A clamor of voices and machinery was filling the air, fire and electricity lured him to the heart of it. The night market had to be close.

Running still felt right, the movement and the sway of his body fueling his runner’s high. Or maybe it was all the booze? Nothing like a little oil for the joints, he laughed to the empty street. He rushed headlong into the market, into the people and the bright air. Stalls of all kinds squeezed themselves in what little space they were allowed, vying for the attention of scavengers and settlers with caps they didn’t have to spare. Vendors reached out, pulled you in, asked what you had to trade, where you spent your day, what you wanted in return, when you were coming back, and spit you out feeling a little lighter than when you went in. They all did it, spinning you around and round like a dog in a car wash, too many bright colors, too much touching you, not enough air.

Running cut down the noise and kept prying hands away from his pockets. Instinctively, people knew to dance a fine line between being in the way of a running, alcohol-toting, wild-haired, gangly scavenger and being in range of the vendors; they were equal threats. He could weave through them as well as the next peg-legged rat, but around them or through them, he was getting through. 

An image of the bouncer, that giant, trying to wade through the crowd the same way he did crossed his mind. Suddenly he was as big as the street was wide and twice as tall, a Pigzilla terrorizing the street, breathing a never ending shotgun spray over the people. Breathless, he laughed and pushed himself to keep running. The edge of town couldn’t be far, now.

Full stalls tapered off into empty tents with faint remains of life, only scraps and foot prints in the dirt, sometimes a huddle of metal and clothes curled away from the light. Everyone had been there at some point. Not him, he thought. Not anymore.

Finally, he reached the docks. Any literal waters that could have surrounded the docks were long dried up, but ironically, the commodity that passed hands most at the docks was water. Lean, dirty kids with little other talents were gophers going for the vendors and shops in town, dragging scrap in and carting water out. Garages housed everyone’s ride from the desert sun and sand during the day and made repairs as necessary--for a price. Everyone else huddled under tarps, at least one body for every car, and either did business there or waited for night. Driving under the sun was asking for the elements to pick you apart, so nearly all travel took place at night. Sunburn, heat stroke, overheating motors, the whole concept was unthinkable. Too much risk.

Most cars had already left unturned earth and tracks of life in their place, but a few late departures were still collapsing their tents and camp. Junkrat ran past the first two and tumbled to a stop near a huge, aged truck. Scavengers bustled about it in circles, packing supplies and pushing coolers, crates, and luggage into the back seat. A woman in weighted rags and scavenged armor was paying a gopher for bringing her a case of water jugs from the city center. He was leaning from foot to foot, most of his day already done, antsy to get on with spending his pay.

“If you’re this late next time, don’t think I’ll pay nearly this much.”

“Mhm,” the gopher counted with her. “And you’d find a knife in your tire for your troubles.”

The woman laughed, “I’m sure, you fucker, I’m sure.” She hoisted her bag over her shoulder and slapped his back. “Go on, now. Get bent, be merry.”

“At last, I’m free!” He mocked surprise with a slack jaw and unphased eyes, then raised his hands to the sky. “Free to get bent!” And he was off, to get bent.

Junkrat considered this a good opening, and sidled up to the car with a smile. The woman turned and the friendliness lining her features dulled. “Just what can I do for you?” He was beginning to get tired of this question.

“Looking for a ride,” he shrugged with his belongings.

“Where to?”

“Omnium.”

Her eyebrows raised. “That piece of shit? Ain’t you a bit young for a death wish?”

Junkrat politely kept smiling. “Been there plenty of times. Just need to go back.” She ran a hand over her jaw pensively and looked over what little he had. She looked over her ride to two faces peeking out the back window. They separated and got to work putting the rest of their supplies into the back seat.

“What’ve you got to pay for it?” She leaned against the dented metal. “Fuel ain’t cheap and space is priceless. We carry you, what’s gonna make it worthwhile?”

“I pull my weight,” he stood tall and gestured over himself. “Lean, mean scavenging machine, Jamison Junkrat Fawkes. Ready to go.” The woman rolled her eyes. Obviously, he needed to show a gesture of goodwill.

“And,” he held out the Jack Daniels by the neck, “I bear gifts.” It was out of his hand before he saw her move and she was inspecting the label. She uncapped it and drank as Junkrat noticed the burning red of his palm. The tips of his fingers ached from the grip and the muscles stung now that he’d paid it some attention. When she let off the bottle with a satisfied sigh, she wiped her mouth with her hand and smeared a little blood over the spot. She mimed the same motions as he, smelling rust, and laughed.

“Only ill gotten gains taste this sweet, don’t they?” She wrapped an arm around his shoulders and shook the last of his false confidence from him. “Ah, who gives a damn where it comes from,” her arm left him feeling floaty, groundless, and she climbed into the open passenger side of the truck. “Hop in the bay ‘fore we leave your ‘lean, mean’ ass behind. Got a schedule to keep.”

One of her crew, a slight woman in neatly sewn rags, carried an old milk crate heavier than her into the bed of the truck and pulled herself up. Just as she moved to offer him a hand, Junkrat dropped his bag in the truck and rolled over the bay door. She huffed and stepped over him to accept a thick plasticky tarp from the driver. She situated and secured it over the metal frame welded as an extension of the roof. It blocked out all light, if you ignored some small holes, and when she closed the bay door, night seemed to really arrive. The engine turned, caught, turned, and finally started. It’s dull roar lulled away any threat of a headache or nausea and Junkrat felt the kind of peace that only comes from a job well done.

Then his hand throbbed, reminding him that it was not as well done as it could have been.  
Brady’s howling rang in his ears. In the dark, he held his left hand up over his face and smelled the rank, metallic wound. If he squinted, he could almost see the raised, marred skin he would have in the weeks to come. That tanned, smug face would have some similarly thick scarring, and imagining it made his face hurt through smiling.

“You hurt or just bleeding?” The woman’s voice was airy, a lush field given sound, and ill fit for her meaning.

Junkrat showed his distaste for the subject like a bobblehead, through lots of shaking, and worked to sit up against the tire cap. “Bleeding, cause I’m hurt?”

“Ooh,” she drawled as if this possibility hadn’t crossed her mind. “Hm.” She moved around in the dark, scraping metal against the truck bed, ruffling something not exactly cloth, and finally lit a torch. They flinched at the sudden light and she aimed it over him. “Let’s take a look at you.”

He offered his hand in an awkward sweeping gesture. Her face dropped and her fingers, surprisingly calloused and dark, held his back from the wound.

“Still bleeding well and good,” her teeth peeked out from her top lip to worry the bottom. Without prompting, she leaned close to his face and brought the light to his eyes. He flinched and pushed it off with his other hand, but it had all the effect of a breeze against a tree. She brought the torch back to his hand when she was ready.

“Boy, you’re drunk.”

“Noo,” he pouted. “No, not at all.”

“You’re gonna keep bleeding for a while.”

“I guess so.”

“Anything else I need to know?”

Worry held his tongue for a second. “Yeeeah. I don’t,” he tried finding the right way to say it. Words came to mind and flitted off like rabbits, made nervous by the imposing assumption. Why’d she bring it up at all? “Just bleed.”

“Never know.” The woman shrugged with one shoulder. “Forget I said something.” She rose to her knees and turned to knock on the window to the car. 

He turned away to the truck door and lifted the tarp just enough to what they were leaving behind. In the dust trail rising from the tires, the glow of Junkertown was tapering off, fading into a dark desert his eyes hadn’t adjusted to yet. By now, the bouncer would have given up and returned to his bloody boss, empty handed and shamed. It wasn’t his best work, but the job was done, and he felt a surge of satisfaction. He dipped back under the tarp and slid down on his back. The woman had retrieved something like a first aid kit from the drivers and was pulling out cloth, pliers, fishing line, a pack of needles--he stopped looking.

Well. This was, in all fairness, a kind of bed. And technically, it had a door that locked, with four sort-of walls. It wasn’t the way he had hoped the night would go, but as the woman started picking out the glass in his bloody palm, he considered himself somewhat lucky.

**Author's Note:**

> this is going to be a very long fic if i can commit to it, and i really hope i can pull thru. i'm open to thoughts, questions, babbling, and everything in between, so don't be afraid to leave a comment or hmu at junkjunker on tumblr!


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